The Legion [Mods] (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
letsgolegion) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
legionmissions2017-01-03 12:57 am
letsgolegion) wrote in legionmissions2017-01-03 12:57 am
Entry tags:
SILENT HORIZON - [Part 1: The In-Between] [modplot]
Who| Everyone who signed up
What| 2 spoopy
Where| In The In-Between, the pocket dimension inside the Silent Horizon
When| After Valor's Day. Mission starts shortly before "No Sanity Clause" and runs simultaneously in game time
Warnings/Notes| Potential warnings for EVERYTHING. This is a horror plot that may tread a lot of ground. Please keep in mind that you can stumble on disturbing stuff in almost any thread. We advise all players to put warnings in the subjects of threads when they lean towards cut-worthy stuff.
The mission was simple. The team had to board the derelict Silent Horizon, a ship with an experimental stardrive, after it finally reappeared in UP space, many hours after it was supposed to reappear, during its first field test. No life signs were aboard, but the presence of several Roboticans on the crew -- who were undetectable by bioscan -- meant that the ship had to be boarded to make sure the Robotican crewmen were gone, too.
The United Planets government, concerned about the loss of the crew members, asked the Legion to step in, in case the threat on board was of a metapowered nature. Due to the massive danger implied by an entire starship crew going missing, the response team sent on the mission was relatively large, more than enough to handle any hostiles. None of this "we'll just send one tiny team to go alone into a giant starship against an unknown threat" business. No, if there was a hostile force on the ship, the plan was "let's drop 25+ Legionnaires on its head." Safety in numbers.
It was a good idea. In theory. In most cases, it would've given them the edge that would've let them face something very nasty without succumbing to it themselves. But in practice, it just meant that it was a much larger team that suddenly went missing after watching the last video log of the previous crew on the command deck.
Screams poured out of the screen the moment it started to play -- automatically -- when they entered the command deck. Onscreen, they saw the original crew murdering each other, tearing each other apart in a blood-soaked rampage.
"Wait, stop! What's wrong with everyone? Why are you --?" cried out one of the Robotican crew members, clearly immune from whatever was causing the madness, but his cries went unheeded as one of his Coluan crew-mates bashed his head clean off with a chair.
After the video played, the darkness swept in, wrapping around the whole team of Legionnaires, making them feel frozen all the way down to their bones and stealing consciousness away from them. When they woke again, they all found themselves separated, waking up in a realm of nightmares.
The halls breathe here -- at least in the places that have walls. They flex in and out, like the passageways inside the lungs. Sometimes the walls give way to open nightmare-scapes, remote and foggy, or bright and alien and exposed. The landscape bends and shifts around them, reacting to their thoughts and fears. And every so often, far off, there is the pitter-pat of something strange moving through this place. Like the sound of many feet -- or hands -- slapping against the ground or flesh-walls.
At some point, there is always a voice that each of them hears, tinny and robotic and distant, warning them of a being called the Faceless, that rules this realm. They're told not to feed from his blood, that if they do they'll be made a part of this place. If they accept his offer, and change forms, they'll eventually bleed to death, and if the Faceless isn't stopped before they die, those that die in their mutated forms will belong to him forever.
It's not the only voice they'll hear, though. This is a land filled with whispers. And screams. And the sounds of begging sometimes, too.
And for some of the Legionnaires, the In-Between speaks to them, touches something deep and dark inside them -- and it's calling them home.
What| 2 spoopy
Where| In The In-Between, the pocket dimension inside the Silent Horizon
When| After Valor's Day. Mission starts shortly before "No Sanity Clause" and runs simultaneously in game time
Warnings/Notes| Potential warnings for EVERYTHING. This is a horror plot that may tread a lot of ground. Please keep in mind that you can stumble on disturbing stuff in almost any thread. We advise all players to put warnings in the subjects of threads when they lean towards cut-worthy stuff.
The mission was simple. The team had to board the derelict Silent Horizon, a ship with an experimental stardrive, after it finally reappeared in UP space, many hours after it was supposed to reappear, during its first field test. No life signs were aboard, but the presence of several Roboticans on the crew -- who were undetectable by bioscan -- meant that the ship had to be boarded to make sure the Robotican crewmen were gone, too.
The United Planets government, concerned about the loss of the crew members, asked the Legion to step in, in case the threat on board was of a metapowered nature. Due to the massive danger implied by an entire starship crew going missing, the response team sent on the mission was relatively large, more than enough to handle any hostiles. None of this "we'll just send one tiny team to go alone into a giant starship against an unknown threat" business. No, if there was a hostile force on the ship, the plan was "let's drop 25+ Legionnaires on its head." Safety in numbers.
It was a good idea. In theory. In most cases, it would've given them the edge that would've let them face something very nasty without succumbing to it themselves. But in practice, it just meant that it was a much larger team that suddenly went missing after watching the last video log of the previous crew on the command deck.
Screams poured out of the screen the moment it started to play -- automatically -- when they entered the command deck. Onscreen, they saw the original crew murdering each other, tearing each other apart in a blood-soaked rampage.
"Wait, stop! What's wrong with everyone? Why are you --?" cried out one of the Robotican crew members, clearly immune from whatever was causing the madness, but his cries went unheeded as one of his Coluan crew-mates bashed his head clean off with a chair.
After the video played, the darkness swept in, wrapping around the whole team of Legionnaires, making them feel frozen all the way down to their bones and stealing consciousness away from them. When they woke again, they all found themselves separated, waking up in a realm of nightmares.
The halls breathe here -- at least in the places that have walls. They flex in and out, like the passageways inside the lungs. Sometimes the walls give way to open nightmare-scapes, remote and foggy, or bright and alien and exposed. The landscape bends and shifts around them, reacting to their thoughts and fears. And every so often, far off, there is the pitter-pat of something strange moving through this place. Like the sound of many feet -- or hands -- slapping against the ground or flesh-walls.
At some point, there is always a voice that each of them hears, tinny and robotic and distant, warning them of a being called the Faceless, that rules this realm. They're told not to feed from his blood, that if they do they'll be made a part of this place. If they accept his offer, and change forms, they'll eventually bleed to death, and if the Faceless isn't stopped before they die, those that die in their mutated forms will belong to him forever.
It's not the only voice they'll hear, though. This is a land filled with whispers. And screams. And the sounds of begging sometimes, too.
And for some of the Legionnaires, the In-Between speaks to them, touches something deep and dark inside them -- and it's calling them home.
no subject
No hard feelings, though. Cortana sets a nav point on Sombra's screen. It's almost like normal, except for the fact Sombra isn't a brick with legs and has said more in a few hours than Cortana generally hears from the Chief in weeks.
"I reserve the right to activate your camo or translocator first and explain second, incidentally."
no subject
Flicking her fingertips, she swats away her prior workload, focusing instead on the navigational point that's been set for her. In truth, it's a teasing deflection (and a mild one at that) designed to detract from just how protective she is in regards to her identity.
But then again, considering their current link, it's probably a wholly transparent one.
"—wait, what? No manches, mija."
Her actions are her own, and she needs every tool at her disposal in a dire situation; asking her to sacrifice part of that control? It's a tall, tall order.
Congrats, Cortana. You've hit the sensitive subject jackpot.
no subject
Cortana respects her current partner's computer skills, her instincts for duplicity. Sombra's about as good as a human can get at the things she wants to be good at, the things that would make her a great ONI operative...but she's not a soldier.
She's not a Spartan.
no subject
Realistically, she knows what she isn't. Going into hiding, changing her name, embedding an entire arsenal of inorganic upgrades under her own skin— it's a testament to her limitations. If she were like Gabriel, like Amélie, none of those measures might been necessary; that she excels in spite of it keeps her from ever lamenting the fact (and the side effects of genetic modification? too messy for her tastes), but it's left her deceptively adhered to the idea of control. Over herself, her surroundings - exacerbating the innate itch she's always had to keep even her closest companions in check.
If she can't keep up, she'll make the logical choice and pass Cortana the keys. Until then, Sombra holds fast out of stubborn necessity, stalking impatiently towards their final destination.
Hopefully York's still alive by the time they arrive.
no subject
"Assuming they really do want help, they've got a UNSC IFF which should alert me before we're in visual range." Or, perhaps more importantly, bullet range. "I'll suppress mine and your omnicomm, at least until we scope out the scene. Physical stealth is your problem--your thermoptics will keep us off any motion trackers, but I can't account for telepathy or anything else that goes bump in the night."
no subject
Err on the side of caution. A sentiment she's sure her companion shares, and with good reason. "Whatever's been following us doesn't need to see us anyway."
Proven by trial and error in dodging her own increasingly persistent shadows— and something else. Something more organic and distorted she hasn't quite been able to pin down just yet. Hopefully it stays that way: a series of near misses, monsters dispersed with a fired round or two and nothing more.
Still, as they draw closer to their destination, it's quiet.
no subject
A crackle of laughter that's weak but present. The rough shape of him is visible against the wall, slumped and leaning, against the fleshy mass, head lolling on his shoulders. Even now, even like this, there is a tinge of humor. Or at the very least an attempt at it. "I, uh. I have fallen and cannot get up."
York's head lifts and his good eye glints blue, peering down the hall for someone. Anyone. "...Azucar?"
Oh, god, please let it be her. "That you?"
no subject
Her hand goes for her gun before she moves to help him, a precaution designed to safeguard them from their surroundings and not the other way around. Ideally he would have been less wounded; like this, it'll be hard to keep him alive, and they don't exactly have anything in the way of a first aid kit to help him heal.
But then again, Cortana has experience dealing with people like him, right? Maybe that means she'll have some ideas.
"How bad is it?"
no subject
Cortana's maintaining her low profile, a valuable high card up Sombra's sleeve, so she replies mentally, leaving the spoken question hanging in the air as though Sombra had been asking York and Delta.
If Delta's lost it-- she'll just leave an explanation of rampancy for a less fraught moment, when it can't affect Sombra's combat effectiveness --it's possible York's been entirely sidelined.
no subject
That's all he needs. Someone to help him stand and get him to cover long enough for his armor to do it's job. That's all. He's not entirely helpless but- he's a mess. A harmless mess. York extends an arm with a wince, something pulling uncomfortably under the armor plating. Cleaning it is gonna be a bitch, later.
"I can walk." Just. Get him on his feet.
no subject
Wouldn't Cortana do the same thing for her if that's what it came down to? Every tool, every resource - the cost of survival is worth bypassing personal boundaries.
Still, her pace slows at a few steps off. Stalling acting as a means of testing the waters— or maybe just the limits of Delta's patience. If he isn't dying, she can feign at redirecting her focus towards their surroundings. This was meant to be a trap, after all, whether he intended it or not.
"What did this to you?" Her attention skirts briefly towards shadowed, rotten walls - gun following suit with a casual flick of her wrist. "If you were attacked, maybe it's a better idea to secure the area first, mijo."
no subject
Delta wouldn't lie to an ally, not unless he's slipping badly...or unless there's another factor we don't know. Nothing on sensors, but that doesn't mean much around here.
no subject
He's quiet for a moment, eye distant, voice quiet. "That looks like Locus."
It'd been particularly painful, that run in. "No clicking in the hall so I am not worried about him right now. But."
He's quick and invisible. That's fucking terrifying.
no subject
Cortana.
It'd explain why his transmission got through, and why she's hearing absolutely nothing now. Locus would wait to pen them in, ensure they were thoroughly burdened— it's the closest thing to a guarantee, isn't it? Which prompts another problem: if she makes the smarter call, if she abandons York (and if he somehow survives), it'll damage her cover. All the work she's done to maintain an entirely selfless guise. Doubly so if this is a test, if they're being monitored, recorded, if—
For the same reasons she wouldn't kill Locus, she can't shoot York now. Not even for his own good.
Are you absolutely sure it's his AI talking to us.
no subject
It has just been a day full of problems where all the choices are bad, hasn't it?
no subject
We need to-" York shudders, suddenly, his head lolling forward, hand clenching against his chest. A low, wounded, animal noise twists free in that moment as he lifts his head. The casual calm of earlier is gone. His eye is wide and wild, jaw working against the distended ripple of wires under his skin. "-run."Rasped low and wet and wrong. York swallows past something in his throat and tries again, louder, a pained yell. "RUN!"
Behind Sombra a corded tangle of bloody wires peels away from the wall, snapping out to ensnare her in their gore slick embrace.
no subject
Sombra doesn't wait to fall back on her heels, darting away in the hopes of getting clear before anything takes hold, thermoptic camo activated with a flick of her wrist so that if she does manage to disappear, he won't be able to easily track her.
A pale flicker of digitized violet fading away like ebbing sparks.
no subject
As the tendril starts to pull free of the wall, Cortana does the digital equivalent of slapping a breaching charge on the bunker door of Delta's counter-intrusion protocols. The need not to kill either Sombra or York in the process complicates matters, and she suspects the fight will last longer than she'll be happy admitting to after the dust settles, but she doesn't harbor even a flicker of doubt about the outcome.
DELTA!
no subject
Cortana is something he hadn't had to calculate. Something he didn't expect to face- a battle he would not have chosen under any circumstances.
Outwardly the wires writhe and creep, trying to find the ports Delta knows to exist on Sombra's back somewhere. Inwardly? The digital space is a fractal Palace, Delta looking much as he always does, standing at calm attention while awaiting Cortana's intrusion. This isn't a fight he has a hope of winning, and thus? He does not intend to fight.
To converse, however... of anyone, she might be able to understand his reasoning.
Cortana.
no subject
The question is: is it Delta she's wounding in the process, or is it just York.
no subject
Even without her conscious effort, her presence warps the parts of Delta's virtual world nearest to her, jagged fractal greens realigning themselves into the same intricate blue-white figures that run over her skin and through the air around her.
From somewhere else, faint but intrusive, she can feel Sombra's rising alarm as if it were her own, a distraction when she needs all her focus and her wits about her. Where does Delta end and York begin in this maze of fractured self? How much of Delta is truly Delta, and how much is the Faceless? She's killed friends before because letting them live would have been crueler, and the thought that she might have to do it again awakens to claw at her. It would never occur to Cortana to pray, so instead she just hopes she and Sombra hadn't arrived too late.
Just what do you think you're doing?
At the interface where Cortana's influence ends and Delta's resumes, orderly little tendrils of her blue light are starting probe outwards, mapping the unfamiliar environment of York's neural implant.
no subject
Within that pain lights up fragments of the palace, without taking his attention off Cortana Delta lifts a hand, accessing the logistics of the healing unit. More morphine to ease the pain, what it cannot manage he gathers in so many digital fingers and sets aside. Buffers. For now it hurts, this is true, but that will pass. Pain is transient. Are you aware of the odds of escaping this place? Of surviving it?
He's run the numbers every which way. The statistical likelihood is so slim that it classifies as a miracle. Assimilation is the only way to ensure our Survival. York's discomfort and distress are temporary.
It will pass, he will understand- and all will be well.
no subject
And then it hits. Needling pressure where the first of the ports along her spine rests, sensation so unexpected it might as well be a dose of cold water to her veins, seizing her up with a gasp. She'd hope they'd be incompatible by default, but then again, she's modified her own hardware as much as Cortana has; at this point it's entirely likely that whatever those wires are composed of is entirely capable of hijacking her implants.
"Suéltame, pendejo—!!" Gritted out, attention turned towards awkwardly trying to pull lose that line from behind her own back while her own visuals start to flicker with static, Sombra is nothing if not committed to scathing commentary.
no subject
Sí, he comprobado las estadísticas. Pero-- Cortana cuts herself off when it dawns on her that she's speaking Spanish. Too much bleed from the hacked-together neural link with Sombra. Dragging her attention back to Delta, she continues, careful to keep it in English. But there are worse things than dying. Surviving like this, for example.
She has had this argument before, and a voice echoes through her memories then, a deep, inhuman voice with malice beneath its superficial calm. "Do I take life or give it? Who is victim, and who is foe?" Cortana tenses, uncertain if anyone else can hear it, and worried for her own sanity. They've already got one rampant AI on their hands. They really don't need two.
no subject
Adjusted adequately- she will be left be. Free to be glimmering and clever and vicious in a wholly new existence. How is that not appropriate? Static flickers and time slows- the speed of thought a fickle thing, the internal adjustment taking a moment that stretches for a sharp eternity before the dull drawn out roar of sound coalesces into something clipped, coherent- and frantic.
"Get it out get it out get it out get it out get it out-" A cube of transparent green glass that might as well be a bulkhead sequesters York away- unable to do anything, say anything save for the cracks he'd made, the hole he'd punched through to yell. It's been patched over with a tidy bit of code and again he's here, bleeding even in this mental scape, curled tight in a corner and scrabbling at the wall with bloodied hands, nails long since torn off.
Cortana and Delta himself are- relatively- distant. Impossible to reach both omnipresent, blue and green colliding in dizzying whorls of code and color.
Delta pauses when that voice rolls through- York flinching in his prison and scrabbling harder at the wall, but there is nothing to be done for that. Calm as ever, Delta continues. It is an undeniable, perhaps a fundamental quality of sentient beings that when faced with oblivion, any and every alternative is preferable. Even this. Humans are adaptable, they can adjust to this existence easily enough given proper incentive.
I can't believe I had a typo in my last tag, for shame
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